


Good Show, Jeeves

by out_there



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-18
Updated: 2006-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:10:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Jeeves, I just killed a chap.  Pulled the trigger and everything."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Show, Jeeves

**Author's Note:**

> This was ruthlessly inspired by [Fry and Laurie in this Queen song clip](http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/232911.html). It's short, very silly and not beta'd, so all errors belong to me.

"Jeeves, I just killed a chap. Pulled the trigger and everything." There are words you never expect to come out of your own mouth, and these were prime examples. "He keeled over like Pongo Twistleton after his twelfth brandy."

"Indeed, sir?"

The only two words I wanted to hear less would have been police and gaol. "Jeeves, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times that the appropriate response to a moment of bone-shattering terror and panic is not 'Indeed, sir'. There should be a rallying of forces, an acknowledgement of the direness of the situation. It is not a time for you to impersonate a frog on a rock bank, soaking in sun and warbling 'Indeed, sir'."

"Yes, sir."

"I've had a rather murderous accident -- no fault of mine, I assure you -- and this is the time for suggestions and brilliant ideas, Jeeves. A friend in need, and all that," I said as Jeeves walked past me to stare at the scene in the sitting room. Without turning around, I could have told him what he'd see.

What he'd see was Richard Wickham -- Bobbie's uncle, who'd come round so I could take him to see the latest thing at the Old Vic and hopefully soften him up before Bobbie asked to go to America with him next time -- stretched out across my carpet, head pointing to the window and hand pressed over his chest, attempting to keep the heart's blood inside. I couldn't say how successful that had been because I'd taken one quick gander and dashed to Jeeves' lair. Jeeves had been abed at the time, not out of any selfish urge to ditch his valet-bound duties, but from a nasty cold sustained while helping Bingo Little serenade the current love of his life in the middle of a cold, damp, London night, but even ill, I had expected more of a reaction.

"Are you certain that he is actually dead, sir?" Jeeves asked, his normally stuffy tones further blocked by a bad nose.

"He left a gun on my dining room table, Jeeves. I picked it up, purely out of curiosity, to pass it back to him -- a dining room table is no place for weaponry -- and he turned around and looked so startled the thing must have been loaded. He held up his hands when I tried to pass it to him and I fumbled, and the thing went off. Next thing I know there's a dead body on my carpet and Bobby Wickham's chances of going to America have been completely scratched. I don't think even you, Jeeves, could convince customs that a dead man is still a happy traveller."

"Most likely not, sir," Jeeves said, dashing my slim, sole hope.

I sighed, much like Atlas must have sighed when Zeus came over -- if it was Zeus, one Greek god's much like another to me -- passed him the heavens and asked him to hold it up for a moment while Zeus popped down the pub for a quick game of darts. "What do we do, Jeeves?"

"In the case of murder, I believe the options are quite exiguous, sir. You could confess the whole affair, stand trial and doubtless spend a certain length of time in prison--"

"Out of the question, Jeeves. One can lie to a magistrate and quote a fictional name in the matter of a fine. If I have to serve twenty years, eventually someone will realise that I'm Bertie Wooster and I will never hear the end of it from Aunt Agatha. Also, I'd prefer not to spend my next dozen birthday parties in chokey. I doubt the wine list is very good. What's the next choice?"

"I agree, sir, that it would not be the preferable option," Jeeves said, pulling his dark dressing gown tight around his chest and crossing his arms. I felt somewhat guilty for dragging him from his sickbed but this matter was well beyond me. "The other solution is to hide the evidence from the authorities."

"Dump the body, you mean?"

"Precisely, sir. In a situation like this, where it was known to several people that the formerly-animated personage was last in your company, it may be advisable to move to another country and consider a change of name."

I frowned. "But I like being Bertie. I don't think I'd like any other name half as much, Jeeves. It has a friendly, inviting sound to it, denotes the life of the party, that type of thing. I couldn't very well become a Cecil or a Cuthbert."

"I believe that Albert would allow you to keep the current moniker that you are so attached to, sir, but there is a more important issue at hand."

"The question of where to go, Jeeves?"

"No, sir."

"The problem of disposing of the evidence, because from the size of Bobbie's uncle, I don't think he'll be easy to move."

"No, sir."

"I don't think coming up with a surname is of the utmost consequence at this moment in time, Jeeves."

"No, sir," Jeeves said, reaching for a plain, white handkerchief and swiping his nose with the type of dignity that royalty only aspires to. "I was thinking of a different matter."

"What would that be?"

"The logical explanation for why the corpse continues to breathe, sir," Jeeves said, looking over my shoulder to the corpse-in-question behind me. "Considering the death was caused by a shooting accident, the lack of blood is also quite unusual."

I spun around to follow his gaze. "And I'm fairly sure dead chaps don't sit up, right, Jeeves?"

"That is not the usual way of things, sir."

We both stared as Richard Wickham -- formerly known as my murderous accident -- sat breathing deeply for a moment and then staggered upright and leaned on the mantelpiece. Now, my experience with dead bodies has come purely from mysteries and the like, but I'm quite sure that death is a great deal like marriage: once one is dead, there is no going back. But this fellow looked like he'd found some kind of immortal divorce clause.

I made my way back into the sitting room, keeping a close eye on him in case he changed his mind and decided to drop dead again.

Jeeves gave a small cough. "A drink, sir?"

"Yes, please," I said enthusiastically and then realised the comment had been directed at Wickham, who still looked the colour of my walls. (I've been told the correct name for the colour is 'eggshell' or 'off-white' but they look awfully white to me.) "Mr Wickham, would you care for a drink? A brandy? Holy water, maybe?"

"Brandy," he said, colour returning. He fixed me with the glassy-eyed stare of particularly cranky halibut. "What was the meaning of that? Waving a gun around like a hooligan? It's enough to frighten a man half to death."

"I was trying to pass it back to you," I said, confused by his outburst. He was the one who'd given me a fright -- keeling over like a heavy lamppost in a particularly bad storm -- so I didn't see what right he had to talking to me so hotly. "You left it on my table, Mr Wickham. You know what these things are like. You place something on a table somewhere and days later you realise you've lost it and then you can never find the blighted thing again. The exact same thing happened to my green beret last month. I bought it, wore it once -- looked rather smashing, one and sundry agreed -- but I put it down someplace and it's been lost to civilisation ever since."

"What are you talking about, lad? I come here as a favour to my niece, to form an opinion on her friends, and find instead that the fellow she speaks of as a charming, interesting chap is a raving lunatic who tries to shoot people. Luckily for my niece, she has an uncle who cares about the company she keeps. I'm going straight to Roberta's and informing her to set her affairs in order." Working up his steam, he pulled his hat on and snatched his coat from Jeeves in a very rude manner. "She will be coming with me to America and far away from dangerous young men like you, Mr Wooster. Good day."

Saying that, he barged out the door like an elephant in a fit of pique.

Jeeves passed me a brandy and I settled into the armchair. The afternoon had been most trying. "The nerve of it, Jeeves. Coming into a man's home, pretending to be dead and then acting as if it's my fault. People have no manners these days. Although he did say that Bobbie described me as interesting and charming."

"Miss Wickham has been known to bend the truth to suit her own goals, sir."

"Oh," I said, suddenly distracted by the gun sitting on the floor. I must have dropped it earlier. I pointed at it. "The damn fellow forgot his gun, Jeeves."

"This gun, sir?" Jeeves asked as he picked the blasted thing up. "This belongs to Mr Little. He left it here yesterday."

"Why would he do that? Surely, he didn't think that a gun was a significant part of serenading a girl. I don't think the threat of violence would have helped his cause."

"No, sir. The item is not a weapon but a novelty lighter. Mr Little found that instead of sparking, it had started making a loud noise when the trigger was pressed and thought that I might be able to see it fixed for him. No doubt it was the noise of it that made Mr Wickham pass out."

"Wickham fainted?"

"Miss Wickham mentioned that her uncle had a weak heart and was known to lose consciousness in times of extreme distress, sir."

I stared, agog. The amount of knowledge Jeeves has on any subject can be quite amazing. "So the gun was a lighter, and Wickham swoons when startled. Explains it all, really. And Bobbie gets her holiday even quicker than she wanted."

"Yes, sir."

"Just leaves me with an extra ticket to the Old Vic this afternoon." I looked Jeeves up and down. He had a touch of a red nose and looked a little paler than usual, but he wasn't sneezing like last night. "I say, Jeeves, would you feel up to taking in the Twelfth Night today? The thing doesn't start for another hour, so there's plenty of time to dress for it, if you're feeling well enough."

"I'm sure I'm well enough to gain suitable satisfaction from the experience," Jeeves said with a slight nod. "If you will excuse me, sir."

"Good show, Jeeves," I said, and helped myself to another brandy.


End file.
